I’m so excited about our 2nd annual Mercy House Gala. Everyone is invited to this hoot and hollerin’ good time!

There will be an amazing live auction and country & western band, dancing and delicious BBQ, a high-end Fair Trade Friday silent auction and most importantly, inspiring stories from the women we empower from around the globe.

You can purchase a ticket (or a table), learn more about attending or sponsoring this barn-raising good time here. (There’s also lodging info).

Save the date!

P.S. Please drop us an email if you are coming from out of town or if you can’t come, but would like to donate to our auction at mercyhousekenya@gmail.com

We’d love to invite you to a casual meet & greet lunch and tour of the Mercy House warehouse the next day!

I’ve watched the documentaries about children the age of my second grader chained to a chair with a quota to fill. Weeks after, I couldn’t stop seeing a little girl in bondage every time I saw mine in freedom.

I stood at the doorway of the guest house we were staying at in Ethiopia last month talking to a missionary friend who lives there. The beautiful Ethiopian women they serve created lovely jewelry for our June Fair Trade Friday boxes going out at the end of next week.

We were talking about empowering women through product creation and long term sustainability. The conversation turned to companies producing fast fashion that’s cheap for us to buy, but cost the women making it long, back-breaking hours of work for pitiful wages.

“Yes, and now there’s a popular clothing factory in Addis Abba. They are employing women for nearly nothing. And women are standing in line to take the jobs because they are desperate,” the missionary told me.

We had spent the day with Ethiopian women bent over a sewing machine, mothers desperate enough to sit at a sewing machine all day and all night to provide for their children if that’s all they could find. But these women were filled with hope and opportunity.

We met the mother and daughter who make the thread from sheep’s wool–

And we visited the home of the family that weaves that thread into fabric–

We have seen the room they work in, we have touched the fabric they sew. We can guarantee the good working conditions. Because we know where the product is made.

But not every impoverished woman is that lucky. As soon as my missionary friend named the store she was referring to, my teenager looked up from her book and walked over to our conversation. I could tell she was listening closely and probably thinking of our visit to an H&M store last year in The Netherlands.

We had been exploring the old city on our layover our the home from working at Mercy House in Kenya. We had just visited Anne Frank’s house and ended up in the shopping district.

My daughter asked if she could go into the big H&M on the corner and she ended up buying a cute summer dress, thrilled she had one of the latest European fashions.

After being exposed to the term slave labor on my trip to Kenya in 2010, I returned home a wreck and literally wore myself out trying to buy only fair trade items for my family. I wanted to be a conscientious shopper, but I went from one extreme to the other. I remember spending weeks searching for a pair of fair trade black pants for my daughter to wear to her band concert. I ended up at Target with the pants I needed and with a lot of unneeded guilt.

I finally acknowledged that I couldn’t tackle everything and so I focused on my yes to God which resulted in starting Mercy House.

But I cannot ignore the thousands of women from India to China to Bangladesh to Ethiopia who literally slave over the clothes that end up on a rack for us to buy and eventually hang in our closet. And even though we are mostly powerless to stop it, we can educate ourselves to avoid the places we know don’t hold to good working standards. But more importantly, we can also teach our kids (future shoppers) about redeeming consumerism.

Of course, we can’t trace every item we purchase. But we can avoid places we know offer unfair wages or poor working conditions. (<—–This 2014 list is shocking and I’m glad some of these companies are changing the way they do things.) And we can support places we know offer ethical choices, like this ethical kids clothing store.

Since that day in Ethiopia, my daughters have held up sale items in a store- the kind we would normally make a beeline for and asked, “do you think a slave made this?” While it’s not exactly a normal question that leaves you feeling warm and fuzzy, it’s an important one.

Because cheap and discounted don’t always mean free.

“I don’t know,” I answered because I didn’t. We walked away from the sale. We may not know the answer, but we can ask the question and teach our children to do the same.

A couple of days ago, my daughter was trying to decide what to wear on a day out when she said, “You know that sundress I have from H&M? I don’t ever want to wear it again.”

I reminded her we didn’t know where it was made and that it was okay. I know we were both thinking about that moment in Ethiopia.

2. Start small. Decide what area you want to be an educated shopper. Maybe it’s chocolate or coffee since these are well-known products that don’t always pay or treat people fairly. Perhaps it’s in gift-giving…

3. Start today. Buy fair trade-it’s a guaranteed way to trace your purchase. We are going to buy stuff. But when we choose to buy fair trade, we are giving a gift twice and empowering a woman in poverty. (That’s another reason I love Fair Trade Friday. Every item comes with an origin and story card.)

My 9th grader mentioned another project that was due before the end of school and we both just rolled our eyes and sighed. There might have been some nervous, hysterical laughter even.

The second grader in the house handed me a huge stack of papers in her neglected homework folder while we sped to carline. Her look of disdain was dully noted. I should probably take a look at those sometime.

My son hit snooze on his alarm 3 mornings last week. One day he got ready for school in 9 minutes.

I’m pretty sure he left the house with only one shoe on. I tossed a granola bar at the back of his head.

Yeah.

We have 11 days of school left. Can you tell?

I don’t ever want to make lunches again. Why is sandwich-making so hard??

There’s all the opening and spreading and assembling. It’s just exhausting.

And then there’s getting my 2nd grader off the bus. I have to go outside. Why is our driveway sooo long?

Stick a fork in me.

I know we are in the homestretch and every end of the school year, I feel this way. I keep rereading Jen Hatmaker’s post and the hilarious comments and I know I’m not alone. Solidarity, right?

The first couple of weeks of summer are amazing. We turn off the alarms, the kids sleep late. We pull closed our favorite room darkening curtains to help their bodies get more rest because we think only of the children. There’s a lot of laying around and few expectations. We swim and go to the park and fire up the bbq. We make summer bucket lists. We wear flip flops every day.

But moms like structure and we get twitchy when our kids stay up all night and want to sleep all day. So, we start slowly with a requirement or two. Like maybe get out of bed or get dressed today. You know, baby steps.

We take their resistance in stride. But we secretly change the Internet and Netflix password and hand them a list of chores in exchange for the new codes. It’s parental blackmail and totally legit. This isn’t our first summer, ya know.

We hit a high in the summer and we are just so grateful for all the freedom from routine and schedules and togetherness.

Then Summer Transition Happens.

We all remember that first whine, the first “I’m bored,” the first time our head spins around 3 times. It generally happens the first day back from vacation or summer camp or you know June 10. It happens we’re not entertaining! and delighting! our children all the time!

Moms know about summer retention level and TV brain cell loss, so we have a little family meeting called, “Reading Time Earns Screen Time” for our younger children and a beautiful program called “Get a job,” for our older ones. These are very popular programs with mothers. Every time a child complains we point to the weeds in the backyard and the stack of library books on the coffee table. We can smell their fear.

We love summer. We love our kids. We love the mix of both. But even things we love get routine and mundane.

Moms perk up on our (escape) trip to Target when we catch the scent of school supplies in mid-July. Kids immediately feel nauseous. So weird.

By August first, we are eating popsicles for dinner and we are sending the kids outside and locking the backdoor behind them.

We are taking the shampoo and bar of soap to the community swimming pool and calling it bath time. And we pack the pajamas in the pool bag if we really have our act together.

The last 12 days of summer are a bittersweet countdown we love and hate at the same time.

A lot like these last two weeks of school.

So we try to do the impossible, moms: We try to enjoy every moment-those last days of the school year and the fleeting days of summer. And all the ones in-between that make us crazy.

The week before you were born I had my first pedicure. It was a Mother’s Day gift from your Dad.

I didn’t have to see my feet to know they were terribly swollen.

I begged my doctor to induce me early–not because I was miserable, although yes. But mostly because I wanted to meet you.

You are my only son.

And in that one heavy statement- you have already met and exceeded every joy I thought might come with being a boy Mom.

Except for the dirt. There’s been a lot of that.

The years have been short and you become a teenager this week and with that comes a little more freedom, a lot more responsibility and big lump in your momma’s throat. Thirteen years old. I can’t keep the pantry stocked or your pants long enough. I can’t keep the girls from taking a second look at your lean body and adorable grin and I can’t keep you from flying away.

When I asked you to kiss me on the cheek for a Mother’s Day picture, you blushed and laughed and said, “I don’t really know how to kiss.” I think I will hold onto that moment forever (and try not to bring it up when you show up with a girlfriend on the doorstep in a few years).

You are changing daily. You keep more to yourself. You are quiet where you used to be loud. Your wit is razor sharp. You are growing into a man in front of me and there are some (more) things I need to tell you.

Son, there’s a part of me that would keep you young and innocent forever. But that would be selfish. Healthy things grow and you’ve got the growing up part down. The world is a difficult place to navigate, but now that you are a teenager, I have to start letting you try.

I want you to always:

Choose people over technology.

Understand that 6 out of 10 of your classmates will look up porn on the Internet to learn about sex. Don’t be a statistic. As hard as it may be, ask us.

Know there will be times you don’t like me very much. But I’m your mom and you have to get over it.

Remember when a pretty girl whispers she loves you one day that your momma loves you more.

Say you’re sorry when you need to.

Be quick to forgive and slow to anger.

Choose kindness before popularity.

Understand that girls you may be tempted to look at are somebody’s daughter or sister.

Remember social media is a powerful weapon or resource. Your choice. Use it wisely.

Know that ownership is not a right; it’s a privilege. This means your future phone and car and well, everything, is actually mine and your dad’s and we are letting you borrow it.

Have an escape plan for when you feel tempted. Joseph ran from Potipher’s wife and that’s always a good place to start.

Serve other people before you serve yourself.

Be cautious when sending a text message, a picture or replying to one that you wouldn’t want me or your Dad to receive.

Remember you can always tell your Dad and I anything. Everything. Always.

Wait for sex. Some days it will be hard. Other days harder. But wait for it. God has an order and when we stick to His plan, there is a lot of peace and fulfillment. When we get things out of order we end up carry a lot of extra baggage.

Know that God is with you every moment–in joy, in sorrow, in love and life and death.

I wondered how we could both be looking at the same reflection and see something so different. I saw a beautiful teenager getting ready for the luncheon I was speaking at, but she saw much less.

She’s growing into her own skin, discovering what she likes about herself and learning to accept things she can’t change.

It’s hard to be fifteen.

“Honey, that dress looks great. You look beautiful.” It didn’t matter how I said the words, if she didn’t believe them.

I kept checking my watch. I didn’t want to be late, but I really wanted her to go with me like we planned. It wasn’t just clothes, it was imperfect hair and make up and just a bad day. The harder she tried, the harder she was on herself and the clock was unforgiving.

“Mom, I really want to go with you. But I don’t feel good about myself today and I don’t want to make you feel bad about yourself.” Sometimes the hardest part of motherhood is knowing what to say when your kids hurt. Especially when there just aren’t words to take away their pain.

I tried to comfort her, but eventually, I had to leave. Puling out of my driveway with her standing there, a single tear trailing down her cheek was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Her choice made both of us sad, but I understood it. I still have days when I don’t like me.

I pulled over at the next street and texted my husband, “Be gentle with her.”

But he didn’t see my message because when he heard her bedroom door shut, he was there, lightly tapping on it.

He waited. She didn’t answer.

So he quietly opened the door without saying a word. She was sitting with her back against her wall, torn by her decision. My husband sat down next to our firstborn and put his arms around her.

She put her head on his shoulder and cried.

He held her and never said a word.

He didn’t have to say anything because he already said everything.

By the time I got home, she was in comfy sweats with her hair pulled back and they were baking a cake together. Tears were replaced with teasing and I could tell she was feeling better about the day.

They say beauty is only skin deep, but they probably weren’t freshmen in high school where every day is like a Pinterest fashion show. Our daughters our growing up in an image-obsessed world.

And it can be tough to feel beautiful in a filtered world.

Later, I kicked off my heels and propped up my tired feet and scrolled through Instagram. I clicked on my daughter’s account and scrolled through her images like I do occasionally and what I saw there took my breath away.

Pure beauty. The kind that has nothing to do with a bad hair day or clothes that don’t feel right. The kind of beauty that isn’t found in how we feel about ourselves, but instead how we love others-— (which ends up making us feel good about who we are)-that’s what I want my daughters to see in the mirror.

That kind of beauty doesn’t come with a great outfit, a perfect complexion or shiny hair. It is found deep within.

Pulling her aside I showed my teenager the picture. “Honey–this is the first time I’ve seen this photo you posted while we were in Africa at Mercy House. Look at it. You don’t have makeup on. You’re jet lagged and probably need a good shower. But I’ve never seen you look more radiant.”

Bad days are part of life and we don’t always feel good about what we see in the mirror. We have to remind our daughters that this has very little to do with true beauty. They need us to emphasize inner beauty as much as the world emphasizes outer.

She looked closely at the picture of her selfie with her African sisters. I saw her remember how loving others feels. She was reminded that these girls who live on the other side of the globe didn’t care about her outer appearance. They simply loved her for showing up and being their friend.

I’m no parenting expert, but one time my child did say that I was the best mother she ever had.

So, there’s that.

I love being a mom. At the end of the day–no matter how many mismatched socks are in the laundry pile or how dirty the van is or how many kernels of corn are under the kitchen table, I am glad I said yes to motherhood.

But it’s no surprise that motherhood is hard.

Hard like crying yourself to sleep. Hard like second-guessing every decision. Hard like someone else’s bodily fluids on your person. Difficult mothering days are like a suckerpunch in the gut. And like a mood swing gone wild, the next day is beautiful and tender it takes your breath away and makes you want to do it all over again. And again.

Moms do it all.

We fish the icky things out of the dark scary disposal.

We sniff diapers.

We clean and trim other people’s finger and toenails.

We give up the other half of our bagel so our child can have a second breakfast.

We smell socks to determine if they are clean or not.

We wait for hours and hours and hours in car lines, doctors offices, at dental appointments, practices, rehearsals and recitals.

We clean up messes we don’t make.

We give up our bodies, our beds, our figures, our very lives for other people.

The most important thing you can do for yourself this Mother’s Day: remind mom (even if she’s you) that what you do is important. The unseen, unknown hard work of motherhood is changing your kids’ world.

Even if no one recognizes it. It matters.

Small service may feel small, but size doesn’t matter. What you do matters. It has long-lasting, eternal significance.

And there isn’t anyone else in the world who needs to hear this more: Mom, your small daily acts of service, your mundane–it matters so much more than you think it does.

Because when we embrace our yes–as messy and undervalued as it may seem some days it gives us the passion to keep saying yes every day.

We love the hope that one day our kids will sleep in on Saturdays (This is also when you know that you have ARRIVED).

We love that our children don’t hold grudges and are easy forgivers.

We love that no matter how hard of a day it’s been–no matter how much we yell or mess up, our kids still want us.

On this messy parenting road, we can always find something good to be thankful for. No matter what. Always.

Because deep down, we know one day there won’t be anyone asking to borrow our clothes, reaching for our hand, making us handmade cards, filling our car, our home, our lives with noise, leaving a trail of mess and mayhem in their wake.

We love that even though we don’t love every minute, every phase, every hard mothering day that leaves us weary and wondering if we are doing it right–we love that God chose us to mother our kids.

Not only do I get to mother three amazing kids, I have the honor of connecting moms who have with moms who don’t.

I get to remind and nudge and help mothers who’ve been dealt a good hand, remember those whose hands are empty.

During this busy month, I sat at a picnic table at the park with some friends. The kids were swinging and sliding within earshot and occasionally we would stop our conversation mid-sentence to count their heads, while our husbands solved all the world problems a few tables down.

We are women living in community together-young and not-so-young moms and women-longing-to-be-moms trying to help each other through life and faith.

Our conversation skipped from recipes to religion and before long we were deep in conversation about Heaven and eternity and our time left here on earth.

One of my friends said, “I grew up wondering why I was born here in Houston, Texas, with so much advantage and opportunity, while other girls were born into oppression and poverty. Why was I dealt this good hand?”

She has discovered her answer by leading The Refugee Project. This is why. God knew we would help each other.

This Mother’s Day, there will be cards and flowers and maybe some new pajamas. Or a bottle of lotion. We deserve it, right? We give ourselves away to our family everyday.

But I think we also owe ourselves a bit of perspective. Why am I here? What am I supposed to be doing? How can I give my kids the world?

This is how: By recognizing what we’ve been given. And by giving some of it away.

I told a friend sitting on my couch the other day that hurting women don’t need another Bible Study or another new church. They don’t need more friends or more stuff to feel complete or healed.

Hurting women need to help hurting woman. That’s how we heal our hurts. That’s how we stir up gratitude for the hand we’ve been dealt. Because we can always always find something to be thankful for even in trials, sorrow and disappointment.

I can’t help but remember the moment when a mom in a slum in Kenya–who wanted the exact same thing for her kids that I want for mine- handed me a lapful of bracelets and I handed her $50. It was a powerful moment of empowerment.

HI! I'm Kristen. I'm here to encourage you as a wife and mom and remind you there's a little bit of THAT family in all of us. I write books, run Mercy House and try to remember I am third (God first, others second). I'm glad you're here.